


Human Resources

by internationalgoatofmystery



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Humor, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 10:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7753669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internationalgoatofmystery/pseuds/internationalgoatofmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Drakes may be heroes to some, but to others are machine gun-wielding psychopaths. For henchmen, an encounter with Nathan Drake always leaves heavy economic and emotional wreckage. This is the standard henchmen's experience from that fateful snowy day in St Dismas'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Resources

There were some circumstances in which Albert was actually thankful for his job. Usually it involved sweating buckets in Central America, nipping out every now and then to fetch boss some aloe vera gel, or more recently, shacking up in a decrepit Italian fortress serving champagne to B-list gangsters. But in the past few days, Albert had been promoted from humble assistant to ‘Henchman #16’. It was a prestigious title, it even came with a high-end store bought silver badge, but he knew the only real reason for the upgrade was the alarming rate henchmen seemed to be dying off.

He wondered if he should speak up about it, to either to Mr Adler, or even to Ms Ross, and ask the question most of the staff of their expedition had been asking since the expedition began. He liked to replay the mental image in his head as he strutted back and forth in the Cathedral’s courtyard, listening to the mauve leaves crunching beneath his boots. He would burst into Rafe Adler’s office, probably interrupting a meeting with prim, suited clients. Before boss could say a word, Albert would dramatically knock over the table, and yell,

“Is it worth it sir? The bloodshed, the economic destruction, the post henchmen PTSD therapy coverage, the tear-soaked letters home to the families, the near-constant sun poisoning, the lack of anything for our coffee but Splenda, the on-field limb amputations - all for treasure? How many have died, their lungs peppered with bullets, their faces beaten and mashed beyond recognition? How many?”

At that point Mr Adler would fall to his knees, weeping as he exclaimed to the ceiling, “Oh God forgive me!” Then maybe Albert would get a hefty severance package.

Albert had never been on the field before. He had previously spent around 15 or so years working the LUSH counter, but had left after finding a Rafe Adler henchman advertisement in the local newspaper, and became hell bent on getting the job once he discovered the health insurance rate. Due to his lack of training and considerable budget cuts to the little Adler-Ross Military Academy, he had first been placed as Mr Adler’s assistant, while his old assistant went on paternity leave. Now he was back, and Albert had been placed inside the courtyard of St. Dismas’ Cathedral, a position unlikely to see active combat.

“Your first tour?” asked another henchman in a gruff voice.

“Er, yeah I guess.” Albert felt weird calling it a tour, since it felt more like they were protecting a child’s jungle-gym.

“It gets easier. When you shoot the bastards, imagine you’re shooting rabbits, that helps. I’m Bateson, by the way.”

“Thanks. Albert Bourke.” _Why the fuck would I be shooting rabbits?_ Albert thought. Where did Mr Adler find these people?

“You have a family?” Bateson inquired, looking to alleviate the consistent boredom with small talk.

“Yeah, a wife back in Boston. She runs a nail parlor.”

“Fancy.” said Bateson. “Mine’s a dentist in Johannesburg. She doesn’t really need to work, with the $50k per year I bring in, but it helps give her something to do, I guess.”

Albert really needed to ask for a raise.

“So, er, what’s the worst case of bad teeth she’s ever seen?”

“Our eldest son tripped down the stairs and knocked out his two front teeth. That probably isn’t really the worst, but from anytime anyone asks her that’s always what she says. Definitely her nightmare scenario.” Bateson chuckled and shifted his assault rifle to his other arm.

“You have kids?” Albert asked. 

“Yeah, five. I miss them a lot, but hopefully we’ll be done with all this flummery by the holidays.”

It occurred to Albert that all this would inevitably come to an end. He wondered what would happen to them all, the henchmen, the accountants, the caterers, the historical consultants. “About that - what’re you planning to do after all this has blown over?”

“Oh, I hear the Krimzon Guard are hiring. I might go check them out.”

Albert was about to also ask how much vacation time Bateson was getting, when a thunderous explosion threw him to the floor.

“This is Bateson, reporting code 163 in the courtyard, requesting backup!” Bateson was chattering into his earpiece, as he struggled to load his weapon while recovering from the blast. “Bourke? You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Albert spluttered, his ears ringing. He reached for his gun, worrying how he would shoot straight after nearly being knocked out. Two dusty figures climbed in through the broken window. Albert was ready to sluggishly recite the Geneva convention’s statute to the rights of man, when Bateson wasted no time in emptying his ammo out on the poor fellows. Somehow, the rain of bullets barely even hit the men, despite Bateson’s careful aim. Luck was on their side, as it would happen, as the taller figure shot straight into Bateson’s chest - the only part on his upper body not cellowrapped in bullet-proof material.

Just as the criminals were running through the courtyard with their backs to Albert, one casually aimed his pistol over his shoulder and hit him in the upper abdomen. He would survive because of his vest, but there would certainly be a nasty bruise in the morning. Instead of chasing the hooligans like company policy, Albert rushed to Bateson’s side.

“Bourke? Bourke, tell my wife… tell her I’m sorry…” Albert nodded, his eyes welling with tears. “Tell her I’m sorry all her jewelry was fake. I hope she understands.” He spluttered some blood, then gritted his teeth.

“Hey, visit my kids once in a while, ok? Make sure they turn out okay. In my locker is a shortbread container shaped like a yorkshire terrier. That’s… it’s my daughter’s gift. She’ll be eight next month…” Bateson heaved.

“Bateson, come on, the medics will be here soon, you called for back up! You’re wasting your strength here man, you gotta stay with me!” Bateson continued, his voice getting raspier with each passing word. “Just make sure Lora gets her shortbread. She always loved it.” Bateson’s eyes glazed over, and Albert, still gripping Bateson’s arm, felt the life leave him.

 

***

 

Now in the green abyss of costal Libertalia, Albert shuffled uncomfortably, feeling his thighs stick to the leather chairs in Mr Adler’s makeshift office.

“You really should be wearing standard henchmen clothing.”

Albert stared at him. “You try wearing cargo pants in 102° heat.”

Mr Adler rolled his eyes. Albert continued. 

“Anyway, I’m here to request an HR department. Too many work-related accidents are happening and something has to be done. I’m not renewing my contract with your company until this issue is resolved.”

“I see. You’re indifferent to the idea that we’re making unprecedented historical discoveries?”

“Yes, yes I am.” Albert snapped. “I just really want to - you know - not die. And just for your information, sir, the boys and I are starting a union. The DPA are, so I frankly don’t see why we shouldn’t.”

“What? A union?” Mr Adler leaned forward in his chair in curiosity. “We offer better health insurance than most other companies. Don’t forget who patched you up after that run in with the Drakes a while back, Mr Bourke. What more could you possibly want?”

“We’ve also sent in a plea to amnesty international for Drake’s arrest.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, well we did the math, you see. We think the Drakes kill about 40 people on each base, so his count is definitely in the hundreds by now. And this is all just on this one mission. According to wikipedia, Nathan Drake is a mass murderer and all of our run-ins with us meet the criteria for massacres. We want to take him to court, at least get him to stop killing, and maybe get some reparations for the families.”

Mr Adler pushed a ball in the newton’s cradle at the front of his desk. “You see, the issue I have with that, Mr Bourke, is that if the authorities actually look into what we’re doing here, that could lead to some legal backlash on Ms Ross and myself. And think, if we’re out of business, how many people could lose their jobs?”

Albert looked at his shoes.

“I’m offering you a 30% raise and another promotion, to a desk job, something indoors and comfortable. Maybe you could join the accountants? Just let me know who else is behind all this unionizing and human rights crap, I’ll have to meet with them to.” Mr Adler swerved his chair to another portion of the desk and began to dial a number on the phone.

“Paul? Ask my dad to call the lawyers in. Okay. Thanks.” He put down the receiver and turned back towards Albert. “Have you made up your mind, Mr Bourke?”

Albert only needed a moment of consideration. “Yes, but I want six weeks more holiday time.”


End file.
